The Holdout

by Laurel Osterkamp

“I suppose,” Grant answers.

  “Well, funnily enough, it’s time to find out just how many fans you have.” Joe turns to the audience and the cameras. “Every year we let our viewers vote on their favorite cast member of the season. This year it should come as no surprise that Grant was one of the top contenders.”

  The crowd applauds and Joe holds up a hand to quiet them. “However,” he projects, “there is somebody else who also made a very strong showing. And my theory is that her popularity was due mostly to this moment.”

  The screen to the side lights up again, and it shows me grabbing Joe by the edges of his safari shirt. “Explain to me how anything was decreed, Joe. Explain it to me now. There was no majority. I want a do-over and I’m not leaving until I get one!”

  The crowd goes wild.

  My cheeks burn as I try to figure out if they’re cheering for me or mocking me. But Henry is leaning over, giving me a thumbs-up, and I can hear my Dad and Ian shouting and clapping above the rest of the noise. It takes Joe a moment to calm the house down enough so he can speak. “One of the best moments in Holdout history!” he cries. “And even though you got blood stains on my favorite safari shirt, I have to agree with popular opinion. It was classic, and it’s the reason why, this year, you are the fan favorite and the winner of $100,000!”

  Next to me Grant brings his hands together in loud, strong claps. He winks and says, “Congratulations. You deserve it.”

  It almost makes me forgive him.

  §

  After the cast party, where we all got drunk and congratulated Henry a million times, after Joe Pine told Grant and me that we should both come back for The Holdout: Saints VS. Scoundrels (a season starring returning players), after I introduced Ian and my dad around and then hugged them goodbye, Grant pulls me out of the party room and into a dark hallway. I don’t try and resist.

  No words are exchanged. He pulls me close, we wrap ourselves around each other, and he kisses me like he needs to, just to survive. I let myself enjoy it for thirty seconds – okay – for a minute, and then I push him away.

  “I meant what I said, about the date.”

  “I meant it when I said that I’d think about it.” I lean in, and kiss him on the cheek.

  He cradles my face in his hands. “So what does that mean?”

  “It means that I’ll call you,” I say. Then I walk back to my hotel room, alone.

  Chapter 16

  The Seattle airport is sort of round, so I feel like I’m going in circles as I walk from my flight’s arrival gate to baggage claim. There is a dull throbbing in the back of my head, a result of one too many celebratory cocktails from last night. I cringe a little when I think about Grant kissing me and about how I kissed him back.

  “Hey! You’re Robin from The Holdout!” A woman in her forties, pulling a pink suitcase on wheels smiles widely as she approaches. “I’m so happy you won fan favorite! I voted for you ten times!”

  “Thank you,” I say, and I give her a weak handshake.

  “You really showed Grant in the end, didn’t you?” She lifts her suitcase and plops it back down for emphasis. “But you’d better not let him take you out on that date. Fans all over the country will be sorry they voted for you if you do.” She wags a finger at me and waves goodbye.

  I wave back, thanking her once more, and my stomach sinks. What would she and the rest of the world think if they knew about my forbidden moment with the enemy?

  When I finally get to the bottom floor to collect my baggage, I see Monty and his three-year-old daughter, Abby, standing off to the side, away from the heavy traffic. She’s tugging on his arm, pointing in various directions, and each time asking, “What’s that?” Monty says something, probably an answer, and they repeat the cycle. Then Abby points in what happens to be my direction, and Monty notices me and smiles in recognition.

  “Hey!” he says, capturing me in a hug. “Can I get your autograph?”

  “Ha, ha.” I hug him back, but the embrace is quick and perfunctory. When we pull away I notice how thin he looks. Thin and a little pale.

  “Fan favorite - that’s amazing! Congratulations.”

  I glance down at my feet in shyness. “So you watched the reunion special.”

  “Of course.” He grabs my carry-on bag and his eyes search for a baggage terminal screen. “But don’t worry. Lucy recorded it. She’s convinced that you’ll want to see it for yourself, so be prepared. We’re watching it again tonight.”

  “Okay,” I offer feebly. Abby is staring up at me, and she tugs once more on Monty’s arm.

  “Daddy, who is that?”

  He leans down to talk to her. “I told you. It’s Aunt Robin, remember?” She shakes her head no.

  Monty grins. “You know, I can still remember you at her age.”

  I smile and shift my weight. “Hi, Abby,” I say. “I like your hair.” Her curls are all pulled back with a bright pink bow. She smiles and buries her face in Monty’s leg.

  “She’s a little shy,” Monty explains. “It can take her a while to warm up to people.”

  “I totally understand.”

  We retrieve my checked luggage, take the elevator to the parking garage, and load ourselves into Monty’s Subaru. “Sorry about the mess,” he says, as he buckles Abby into the larger of the two car seats in the back.

  I remove an empty juice-box and a Raffi CD case from the front passenger seat before climbing in. “No worries,” I tell him.

  He gets into the driver’s side. “This is usually Lucy’s car, and she’s the one who takes the kids to and from daycare.”

  We exit out of the garage and enter the freeway. I lean my head against the seatback and close my eyes.

  “Tired?” Monty asks.

  “Exhausted. This has been a crazy week and I’m still getting over a cold.”

  “Well, we’ll be sure to give you time to rest up.” He pats my shoulder with one hand and his other hand confidently grasps the steering wheel. A silence descends inside the family vehicle and I wonder what we’ll talk about for almost an entire week.

  After a couple of moments I speak. “Ted and Ian say hi.”

  Monty uses his free hand to tap his fingers against his leg. “Really? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, not about Ian. But Ted hates me. He has ever since we were teenagers.”

  The polite thing to do would be deny it, but I hate to deny the truth. “You shouldn’t take it personally. Ted hates just about everyone.” Monty raises his eyebrows but stays silent. “You two went to the same high school, didn’t you?”

  “We all did,” says Monty. “When I was a senior, Ted was a junior, Jack was a sophomore, and Ian… he would have been in sixth or seventh grade, I guess.”

  “What about Lucy?”

  He turns his head towards me for a just a moment. “She was the same year as Ted. But I didn’t know her in high school.”

  “Jack did though, right?”

  “Only right before she was about to graduate. But they’ve been close ever since.”

  I answer quickly. “Until now.”

  Monty gives me a sideways glance. “I wasn’t going to mention that. Lucy told me not to put you in the middle. But I hate to see her so hurt. Do you know what is up with him?”

  I look out the window at the grey sky and the congested freeway. I should feel guilty for everything I’m about to say, but I’ve debated this with myself already, and I’ve decided to act in Jack’s best interest. “Sort of. I haven’t talked to Jack since he introduced me to Jessie.” I turn towards Monty. “She’s awful,” I whisper, because it’s too disloyal to say out-loud. “She talks down to him, and she’s demanding and rude. Plus, she’s the reason Jack won’t return Lucy’s calls. Jessie is convinced that Jack has romantic feelings for Lucy, and Jessie’s making him choose.”

  With an eye roll and a shake of his head, Monty responds. “Okay, she sounds awful.”

  “You should talk to him
and convince him not to marry her.”

  Monty laughs like I just suggested that low-fat cheese is as good as the real thing. “If I told Jack not to marry Jessie, he’d only rush to the altar more quickly.” He taps his fingers some more. “Why is he with her, if she’s so bad?”

  “He’s tired of feeling unloved.”

  Monty raises his eyebrows in question.

  I look down and examine the denim that covers my knees. There’s a small crusty spot that shouldn’t be there and I pick away at it. “Jack told me a lot of stuff in confidence, so I’ll just say that he doesn’t want to be alone.”

  “No,” Monty replies, gripping the steering wheel and rejecting the idea. “He doesn’t know how to be alone. I spent years at it but Jack was barely out of diapers when he married Petra. Now he’s diving into his second marriage without taking any time for himself.”

  “I think Jack would say that he’s been alone for years, but he just happened to be married the whole time. Don’t you think that’s worse?”

  Monty’s response is silence, but I can tell from the concentrated line between his eyebrows that he’s processing what I said. From the backseat, Abby pipes up.

  “Daddy, are we almost home?”

  He doesn’t answer her. “Daddy!”

  Monty shudders and comes out of his reverie. “Sorry, Baby. We’ll be home soon.”

  §

  When we arrive Lucy greets us with hugs and some delicious pasta, and I nurse my hangover with wine, marinara sauce, and garlic bread. After dinner they put the kids to bed and then we watch my reunion special. Lucy and Monty sit side-by-side, arms around each other on the couch, and I recline in the easy chair to the left of the TV. As we watch I feel mild embarrassment, as if the shirt I’m wearing has a small stain because somebody else spilled their grape juice on me.

  Then we get to the part where Grant asks me out, and my embarrassment switches to the full on I-caused-this-humungous-purple-stain-myself variety.

  “You’re not going out with that douche bag, are you?” Monty demands. “I wish he were here so I could punch him.”

  I feel my cheeks flush as I prepare my response. But I don’t have to say anything because Lucy snorts.

  “Excuse me?” Monty pauses the TV as he addresses her.

  “What?” she replies.

  “Why did you snort?”

  Lucy waits to answer, her face neutral, and then she spreads her mouth into a smile. “I think it’s sweet that you’re so protective. That’s all.”

  He takes his arm off her shoulders and eyes her with suspicion, not quite buying her explanation. “Do either of you want anything from the kitchen?” he asks.

  We both say no. Once he’s out of earshot, Lucy turns to me. “Grant would totally kick his ass,” she whispers. “Don’t let them anywhere near each other.”

  I chuckle. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

  She looks toward the kitchen, scoots in closer to my chair, and raises her voice just a notch. “He was so sick when he got back from Ghana. It was awful. I was worried for weeks, both while he was gone, and then after. Even now…” her voice trails off as she sighs. “He’s not entirely back to normal. It’s been a rough few months. I was starting to think we’d never get back on track. But does he seem okay to you, compared to how he usually is?”

  I momentarily contemplate telling her no, he looks kind of pale and skinny compared to how he usually is. But why do that to her? “I don’t know that I’m much of an authority, but yes, he seems okay.”

  Satisfied with my answer, Lucy gives me a grateful smile, but her expression turns to concern. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, just tired.”

  “Do you want to go to bed? I can show you to the guest room.”

  I concede to my fatigue, and Lucy shows me to bed. That night I sleep a deep, dreamless sort of sleep. When I wake I forget for a moment where I am, then it all comes rushing back. Today is the day I’m supposed to be an expert on justice. Ted’s right; the idea of it is hilarious. I bury my head in the covers, wishing I could stay in this spot all day.

  §

  When we arrive at the lecture hall it is nearly full. “Wow,” Lucy says softly. “I know I don’t have this many students enrolled in the course. You must be a big draw.” She starts class by introducing me. Then I get up and face the auditorium full of college students. After being on television and knowing that millions of people are watching, you would think a room with a couple hundred post-adolescents wouldn’t be so intimidating. But it is.

  I begin by describing my experiences on both juries. It takes me around ten minutes to get through what I had planned to say. Lucy had told me to leave a lot of time for questions, so that’s what I do.

  “So you were on two juries within a year. Did you feel like justice was really served on either of them?’

  I’m standing behind the podium and Lucy’s students fill about three-fourths of the lecture hall. A student with spiky hair and huge, film canister-sized rings in his ears asks me this. I bite my lip before answering.

  “Not really,” I reply. “But I learned a lot. One thing I realized is there’s no such thing as absolute justice. It’s all subjective. But I was happy Henry won, and I thought that was just, even if I cheated a little to make it happen. Of course, Grant cheated too, but he did so within the confines of the game.” I pause. Half the students are staring at me and the other half are staring at their phones, and I can’t tell if I sound like an idiot. “Does that answer your question?”

  Another student breaks in. “Wait. Did you just say that justice is subjective?”

  I locate the source of her voice. She’s sitting in the second row. Smooth black hair, tan skin, green eyes. Stunning. “Yes,” I tell her. “That’s what I said.”

  “But the whole point of the jury system is that it’s not. Of course people are going to want different outcomes, but ultimately there has to be one clear verdict.”

  She’s got to be twenty-one or twenty-two and majoring in pre-law. I bet she knows how pretty she is but would rather have people think she’s smart. If I could see her closet it would probably be as neat as her appearance, every shirt ironed and hanging up in its color-coordinated spot. She probably labels her garment boxes.

  I wish I had her confidence.

  “Um, I don’t claim to be an expert on this subject. I just happened to have had a unique experience.” I shift my weight from foot to foot and grip the podium with damp palms. “But the whole time I was on the federal jury I kept wondering why these high-powered business men would leave a multi-million dollar decision up to a group of yahoos they found off the street. And when I was on the jury for The Holdout it occurred to me there was no way I could be impartial, since I was only there because the remaining contestants voted me out. So I have no idea if either outcome is actually ‘just’,” I make air quotes when I say the word, “but I can tell you this. We search for absolute justice because it doesn’t exist, and not the other way around.”

  The pretty/smart girl responds with an arch of her eyebrow and we move on to more questions. Soon they’re on to less philosophical subjects, like “How could you have had sex with Grant on national television?” (Nobody believes me when I tell them that was the editing.) But I’m surprised when the hour is up; time went by way quicker than I thought it would.

  Lucy beams all the way from the lecture hall to her office and then to her car. Just as we climb in it begins to rain so she beams some more on the drive home, probably to make up for the sun’s absence. “That was so great, Robin. You did really well.”

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling incomplete in my response. I don’t think I deserve her praise. If any of my blood relatives had been there they wouldn’t give me such a rave review.

  “I do have a question for you though.” Outside the sky is dark from the afternoon storm and the windshield wipers are on turbo speed. It makes the space inside the car feel smaller. Lucy glances at me for just a second. “Do you rea
lly believe there’s no such thing as justice?”

  “I do. I mean, yes. I don’t think there is any real justice, just like I’m pretty sure there’s no such thing as being absolutely right.”

  “Huh.” She keeps her eyes on the road.

  “You’re not insulted by that, are you?”

  She laughs. “Of course not. It just makes me a little worried. Next you’re going to tell me you don’t believe in true love.” We pull into the daycare parking lot. “You can wait here if you want,” Lucy says. “I’ll be right back.”

  She rushes out of the car and runs into the daycare building to avoid getting wet from the rain. It occurs to me she could use some help, carrying two kids and all their stuff, so I get out of the car and follow her inside. But that’s the end of our conversation, at least for the moment.

  The week goes by in a happy, complete-family sort of haze. Of course there are moments of stress, like when both kids are crying at once, or when neither adult remembered to pick up milk, or when exhaustion from their daily routine settles in. But Thanksgiving is great; Lucy wears the blouse I made her, several of their friends come for dinner, and there is lots and lots of food.

  After the meal is over, the guests are gone, and the kids are in bed, the only thing left to do is digest all the turkey and pie. While Monty watches some football game upstairs, Lucy and I relax in the living room.

  Lucy takes a sip of her tea. “So, are you going to let Grant take you out on that date?”

  “I know I shouldn’t.” I tug on my hair, which has started to escape the elastic band that was holding it back. I scoop it up and secure it in a tighter ponytail.

  “But you want to?”

  My cheeks burn. “Even if I did, there’s still no way. The world has seen what an ass he is. I can’t go out with him and still maintain my self-respect.”

  “Maybe you’re taking it all too seriously.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I am. That’s always been my problem.”

  “Yeah, that was always my problem too.” Lucy rolls her shoulders back and stretches out her neck. “It still is, sometimes.”

  “Really?”